Author's Note: Well, goodness, it's been about a month since I updated with any POST MORTEM extras!

Here's an interesting one for you now: the beginning of a sequel which I considered continuing...for about five seconds. XD Its title? RIGOR MORTIS. Oh, yes, so original. Sorry, guys, I just don't think there's ever going to be a chaptered sequel to PM. However, I do have a couple ideas for one-shots that I might compile into a ficlet. Or I might just stick them on as extras like I've decided to do with this little guy.

This piece was the prologue to RIGOR MORTIS. I hope it's sufficiently thrilling and chilling for my faithful readers.


New Twilight/X-Files Crossover: RIGOR MORTIS

Everything was new.

Everything had been new for some time.

Everything was brighter, clearer, more beautiful.

Even she was more beautiful. As she passed by her reflection in a jagged mirror, she caught sight of her smooth white skin and her newly-made cheekbones. So beautiful. But so strange.

Not right, her mind whispered. She nodded and frowned at once, confused. She had been cofused for a long time, maybe days, weeks. She didn't know ever since her watch had broken. It was a watch, she knew that, and it had broken, she knew that too. It had stopped ticking out the hours once she'd smashed it against a windowpane on her way out.

She jumped from one roof to the next in a single leap. She didn't even give it a thought. Moving was easy now; she only had to twich and she was across a room. She smiled at her reflection, now presented to her from a glass skylight.

Three roofs over, the scent caught her. It came to her mid-jump, and she dropped from the air like a bomb, crashing to the street. The pavement cracked, but she did not. She landed in a crouch, smelling that delicious smell. It was a beacon and it called to her. It was so fresh. She took off into the night.

It was a male, she knew, walking out alone in the warehouses. Something inside her told her he was being foolish, but the rest of her didn't care; she knew what she needed from him. And she could not wait any longer. She needed him. She bared her teeth and lunged.

As the man screamed out one last cry, the little folded leather holder dropped from her pocket onto the concrete. While she finished her prey off and went on the hunt again, the unobtrusive little object sat, face-up, in the rain.

The object was a badge, and from its shiny plastic surface a face could be seen: a calm, collected woman with coppery-red hair and blue eyes. To the side of the picture were letters:

Dana Scully, Special Agent.

And, in still bigger characters: